Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [102]
Leifander echoed it. "Our spells…" he said slowly, nodding down at the little that remained of the spider that had fallen closest to them. They shouldn't have been able to do that."
Larajin gave him an exhausted smile. "Not on their own, but together…"
He nodded, understanding. The gods joined forces- through us-just as Hanali Celanil and Sune come together in you to augment your magic."
He closed his eyes for a moment and offered a contrite word of thanks-not just to the Winged Mother, but to Larajin's goddesses as well-for this twist of fate. Thanks to Larajin's stubbornness, they'd come close to being killed, but as a result, he had learned an amazing truth. Their spells, when joined, could be as powerful as those of the mightiest cleric.
It was something worth thinking about.
But first, there was the matter of the man in the tree to deal with. Larajin was already hurrying through the woods toward him, feet slipping on the rotted vegetation underfoot. Leifander jogged after her, and as he drew nearer to the oak tree, he got a better look at the man hanging from it.
The fellow was in his early twenties-fully adult, when measured in terms of the human life span-and had a handsome face. His jaw, framed by a thin line of neatly trimmed beard, hung slack, and his eyes were closed.
Was he a friend that Larajin knew from Selgaunt, perhaps? He was certainly dressed like a Sembian, in a doublet of blue and purple, dark blue hose, and what remained of a lace-collared shirt, its sleeves torn off at the shoulders. One of the sleeves had been tied around his arm in a makeshift bandage that was dark with dried blood.
As he drew closer to the oak, Leifander could see that the fellow was indeed breathing. Eyes roved beneath the closed lids, as if he were dreaming. Not unconscious, then, but the victim of some sort of spell.
Goldheart, having followed Larajin and Leifander, landed on a branch just above the sleeping man. With catlike curiosity, she stalked along the branch, sniffed him, then pawed at his cheek. When he did not respond, she settled back onto her haunches, considered a moment, then began to groom herself, as if shed lost all interest in the fellow.
Leifander, however, remained curious. The magic that had induced the man's slumber must have been powerful. Either the person who had left him hanging on the tree-or someone who had come along the trail later, after the blight had revealed the spot where he hung- had stripped the fellow of his valuables without managing to wake him. A scabbed-over crease in his earlobe showed that an earring had been torn from it, and the
little finger of his left hand was twisted at an odd angle and swollen to twice its size, as if someone had wrenched a ring from it.
As Larajin reached up to grab the man's legs and lift him down, Leifander saw clumps of loose earth around the base of the tree, partially hidden by the blighted vegetation. Suddenly he realized the oak's significance.
"Don't!" Leifander shouted. He leaped forward and knocked Larajin's arms down. "You'll be caught up in the spell."
Irritation smoldered in Larajin's eyes. "It's only a sleep spell," she said. "It doesn't rub off on other people." "It will if you touch the tree."
Larajin gestured up at the tressym. "It didn't affect Goldheart."
"Of course it didn't," Leifander answered, exasperated at Larajin for missing a simple explanation. "She's a magical creature."
Leifander pointed up at the trunk of the oak, just above the spot where Dray hung.
"Do you see that?"
Larajin squinted. "Those scratches in the bark?"
"Yes. It's a warning, in Espruar. This is holy ground. An elf lies buried beneath that oak. This man," he pointed up at Dray, "must have been trying to loot the grave. He triggered the ward on the tree, and the elves probably hung him on it as an example. If either of us touches the tree, the magic of that ward will send us into a magical slumber. We'll be as helpless as babes."
"I thought elves were immune